


Three To Tango

by froggy (therealfroggy)



Series: Striptease II [9]
Category: Prison Break
Genre: Comedy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 14:09:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therealfroggy/pseuds/froggy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael and Lincoln want dancing lessons. From Sucre. Who does not approve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three To Tango

Michael was laughing. Lincoln was grinning. Sucre was rolling his eyes.

“What the hell are you doing, Sink?”

Lincoln, doing a rapid turn at the end of his stride, pulled Michael with him and dipped his younger brother over his arm, nearly tripping in the process.

“Should be obvious to you of all people,” Lincoln said, spinning Michael outwards with a grand gesture. The younger brother giggled, almost drowning out the blaring Latino music from the small CD player. “I'm dancing.”

“Argentine tango, is it, Linc?” Michael gasped as his brother, arm tight around his waist, all but ran across the open space between the tents with him.

Sucre scoffed. “If that's Argentine tango then T-Bag's next in line for sainthood,” the Puerto Rican said. “You couldn't dance if your ass was on fire.”

“Said the man who couldn't even do striptease without instructions,” Michael laughed as Lincoln dipped him over his arm again.

“Papi, my tango had Maricruz on her back after two dates,” Sucre said, a proud tone growing in his voice.

“Big talk,” Lincoln said, tequila bottle in one hand and Michael's waist in the other. “If you're so good at it, come show us.”

Sucre snorted with the closest thing to contempt Michael had ever heard him utter. “Like hell I'm gonna dance with you faggots. I still got my pride.”

Letting go of Michael – who promptly fell to the ground, tossed off balance – Lincoln rushed over and grabbed Sucre by the wrist.

“Chicken shit. Come on, you can be the guy, and Michael's the girl.”

“Thanks, Linc!” Michael called, picking himself off the ground.

But Lincoln was already dragging a loudly protesting Sucre over to his brother, grabbing each of them and shoving them closer together. “Come on, teach us.”

Sucre sighed gustily. “ _Coño_.”

“Yeah, I know,” Lincoln grinned, “now dance.”

Sucre looked at Michael. Michael was batting his eyelashes and smiling delicately at his former cellie. Sucre swore and slapped him upside the head. Both brothers laughed.

“I'm not gonna like this,” Sucre said, glaring at Michael.

“I know,” was the simple reply.

“I'm not gonna get involved in your ass rodeos.”

“Wasn't counting on it.”

“And I won't take this further than the basics!”

Michael cocked his head to one side. “Really? What's beyond the basics?”

“Shut up and dance, faggots,” Lincoln laughed, pressing them together.

“Dance space,” Sucre almost shouted, “there's supposed to be a distance!”

“What, isn't this the dance of passion and all that?” Michael said, smirking and unsuccessfully trying to hook his leg around Sucre's hip.

The Puerto Rican shoved him away and took a step back. “You really don't know shit about dancing, do you.” It was not a question. “First rule: never invade the space! Respect your non-queer partner, okay?” Lifting Michael's arms, he placed his own right arm on the small of Michael's back, pulling slightly. Michael automatically stepped closer.

“Hey, back off,” Sucre instructed. “I pull, you push. That's the deal. You're supposed to resist and keep the frame!”

Michael smirked, but pushed slightly away from Sucre, his left hand resting on the darker man's upper arm. His right was firmly clasped in Sucre's left.

“See that space between our arms now?” Sucre said, exasperation over Michael's dancing skills rapidly overcoming his reluctance to dance this particular dance with another man. The other man nodded. “Good. That's supposed to be there all the time, unless I do something to change it.”

“Why do you get to change it?” Lincoln said, raising the bottle to his lips again. Sucre was beginning to wish Abruzzi wouldn't have bought quite that many bottles (although he had been on the verge of begging him not to get any at all).

“Because I lead,” Sucre said. “The guy always leads.”

Michael was beginning to look downright eager now, and Sucre found that almost as unbearable as the older brother's grins as he obviously imagined being “the guy” while dancing this.

“Get the rhythm,” Sucre said, finding it himself. This radio station played just his kind of music. “One, two, three, four. Hear it?” Michael nodded. “Now we move,” Sucre said. “I walk forwards, you walk back. Right leg first for you, left for me. We walk on one and three.”

Michael grinned his consent, and at Sucre's slight push, he stepped casually backwards on one and three. _One right, three left, one right, three left..._

“That's easy. I thought you said you were good at it,” Lincoln taunted.

Sucre rolled his eyes. “It actually takes two to do this. Ain't my fault your brother can't dance. Arms, Michael,” he snapped as he felt the full weight of Michael's arm resting in his hand.

Full red lips curved in the bitchiest smile Sucre had ever seen, and the darker man's scowl could almost rival his blush. But Michael picked his frame up.

“Now you go where I lead,” Sucre informed him, and tried a few basic moves – walk the other way, rock, chase, walk again...

Michael didn't quite know where to put his feet as Sucre started pulling him in other directions than straight backwards, but soon found that if he just let his cellie steer his movements, it wasn't all that difficult.

“You're supposed to have your head turned,” Sucre instructed, putting his fingertips on the pale man's left cheek and shoving. They walked a few rounds, sometimes rocking back and forth, doing a slight turn or stopping for a beat.

“These are the basics, then?” Michael smirked when Sucre came to a stop and let go of his arms as if burnt.

“ _Hijo de puta_! Fuck this, man; go dance with your brother!”

And Sucre stormed off, swearing in Spanish.

Lincoln turned a confused face on Michael. “What the hell was that?”

Michael turned to Lincoln, caught glimpse of something over his shoulder, and burst out laughing. Turning, Lincoln was greeted by the sight of Abruzzi and T-Bag, stiff-lipped and with heads thrown back as far as anatomy would allow, marching fluidly across the grass in what could only be called bad tango. It was impossible to tell which one was leading, but at Michael's chuckles, Abruzzi spun T-Bag around in a somewhat ballet-like manoeuvre and the murderer's arms flailed about in an obvious parody of feminine gestures.

“Dumb fucks scared off our tango instructor,” Lincoln laughed, watching as T-Bag attempted to dip Abruzzi over his arm and the pair promptly toppled to the ground, the taller man too heavy for the Alabamian.

“Well, I certainly didn't expect to see _you_ tango; not in my lifetime,” Michael said with a smirk, mostly directed at the mobster.

“Some opportunities are too good to pass up, Fish,” Abruzzi said, shoving T-Bag to his feet. “'Course, might have helped if _Teddy_ had legs even half as good as his tongue.”

“Really, John!” T-Bag exclaimed, huge grin belying his affronted act. “Handin' our personals to the Pretty an' his brother here without them even strippin' down. An' it ain't hardly my fault if mister Mafia OD'ed on growth hormones growin' up.”

“Well, you cost us our tango teacher,” Lincoln said, grabbing Michael's waist again. “So that means we'll just have to practice on our own.”

The sound Michael made when Lincoln pressed him close, obliterating anything even resembling a dancing space, was soon swallowed by the next song, but not before T-Bag could arch an eyebrow at Abruzzi.

“Think our boys had too much o' that worm juice, John Boy? Or 's there 'nuff left for us to have another round?”


End file.
